


Salt

by Graziana



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:30:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graziana/pseuds/Graziana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he wanted to be there when everything fell to pieces, even though he knew that he wouldn't be able to pick up those pieces and glue them back together. He was resolute that he would try to sweep them into a neat pile, that may or may not resemble the man he used to know, but no longer knew him, and relinquish the adhesive to someone who could use it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Moffat/Gatiss world of Sherlock, nor do I own anything of Sir ACD’s world of Sherlock. The views expressed do not reflect my own views and are not designed to offend or hurt. Mentions of suicide. Angst by the bucket load. Constructive criticism welcomed.
> 
> enjoy :)

 

“It wasn’t meant for human consumption.”

 “The man is behind bars.  _Mycroft-_ ” the name is said with distaste “-has got his people destroying the labs. All of them”

 “Good. They…um, they’re saying that there’s going to be permanent damage”

 “Hmmm”

 “I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

 “You won’t”

 “Not lethal, not fatal, good news for breathing, bad news for brainwork though.” He recycled those words from so long ago. “Can you do me a favour?” Pause. He took it as an affirmative silence, quite foolish of him “Can you let go? Just let go of it all, you did fine before me and you will continue to be fine after me. Just…” he struggled for a moment, trying to find the correct word, only to find that it was staring him in the face.  “Just  _forget._  I’m a blip.”

 An eyebrow rises quizzically.

 “A blip?”

 “On the radar, under the radar, nothing more and nothing less. I’m selfish, and after everything transpires I won’t be the person you knew anymore, and I won’t be worth your time or effort. And I don’t want you to stop living because…how you  _live_  Sherlock!” Pause “They said only certain memories were affected”

 “Yes”

 “Certain memories often pertaining to one place or thing.”

 “Yes.”

 “Once they’re gone they’re gone forever, as far as they can tell”

 “Yes.”

 “Any attempt to create or re-establish those memories will not be possible, nothing, might even cause more damage as far as they can tell. It’s like a leak that can’t be plugged. Eventually everything will go, but it’ll take decades before _everything_ disappears, specific things will start to go first.”

 For someone who had recently been told that his memory was deteriorating he rattled this off with textbook accuracy. The doctors had told him many times what was going to happen to him, or their best guess.

 "Your point?”

 Always so  _concise._  He had heard once that the word ‘sparse’ was derived from the word Spartan, that the Spartans had been named so because of their methods of communication. Famously concise. Maybe they should introduce a new word into the English language derived from Sherlock’s name, describing someone who talks and acts in his manner of extreme brevity.

“I’m not sure, but I feel like there is something missing, I keep going over everything in my head, they say rehearsal is the key to memory, but I just  _can’t_ put my finger on it. There seems to be gaps, and it’s all blurring together, and  _I want it to stop._ Everything was soclear, ever since we met for the first time, in B…” he stumbles for a moment, and it’s painful; like watching a mountain goat losing it’s footing, unnatural. “In Baker Street”

 It is unclear whether John’s words were a statement or a question. Sherlock’s head snaps up, silence follows, much like it did in the _laboratory at Bart’s_ where they first met. And the silence is followed by nothingness, which in turn makes way for the pain. Because that statement it’s so  _wrong._  And despite the different connotations it holds for both of them, ultimately it means the same thing. And that  _hurts._

 “Oh”

 “I’m sorry” though he doesn't know what he is apologising for, just that something is inherently wrong.

 “I am too…It’s fine”

 “It’s not fine, but it’s happening, and I know it’s a lot to ask of you. But could you just let go? Forget we ever met? Can you promise me that?”

 “No.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

 A tentative smile goes unreturned. It doesn’t make everything all right, not even for a moment.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 It was a bright Sunday morning that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson left 221B Baker Street on their way to talk to a ticket booth operator as part of an investigation into a particularly careful but creative serial killer, seemingly targeting only moviegoers that favoured horror.

 As both men exited the building the latter turned to wait as Mr. Holmes paused to lock the door. However, instead of turning to face the man in question, he turned and faced the window of the café that neighboured their humble abode, and peered in through the grimy panes of glass.

 Speedy’s café was as busy as it ever was at 11 o’clock on a Sunday in mid November. That is to say not very busy at all, their normal custom (one elderly man who used to visit the café with his wife every Sunday until she died three months ago, he stopped for two weeks and then resumed with his usual enthusiasm. Two builders getting their hourly dose of tea. A red headed lady, in her mid thirties who seemed to always have her nose stuck in a book.) were all present.

 John H. Watson’s attention was occupied almost entirely by the redhead, though he spared a glance at the other occupants of the café. Sherlock Holmes feigned ignorance of his companion’s distraction until the cab was at the curbside and the tall man was stepping into it, at which point he proceeded to suavely regain his friend’s attention by a simple and elegant wave.

 If one would proceed to assume that Dr. Watson saw the wave in the reflection of the windows, they would, in fact, be  _wrong_. But by now John could not recall, nor does he care that much for, the memories pertaining to a series of obscure events that ultimately led to him being perfectly in tune and aware of the other mans actions and, quite often, the reasoning behind them.

 That such moments of friendship and camaraderie can be lost so quickly in the dark recesses of the mind was a sobering thought, but lost they were. Despite this Sherlock was not greatly bothered by this loss, as long as the talent still remained, because talent was the only word to describe John’s ability to read Sherlock Holmes the way that he could.

 The cab ride was a long one: the roads were busy and the cabbie took them the long way round, and Sherlock was reminded of a joke John once made in another life about a serial killer-come-cabbie. A joke, no doubt, that John himself could not recall. He decided that a change of topic would be welcome, as he shook his head to clear the fog.

  “Really John, you should just ask her out, or at least talk to her, buy her a coffee one day.”

 The comment was offhand and quite random. It surprised John that Sherlock had noticed his small infatuation with the redhead, but it shouldn’t have. It was embarrassing that he still sometimes underestimated his companion. John did not respond the comment.

 Sherlock was unnerved to notice this little detail about John, unnerved because this was the first time he had noticed John’s fascination with the girl in the Café. He wondered if it were possible that, whilst John’s memory was deteriorating, his was fading too in an entirely different way? 

 “It’s just  _painful_  watching you watching her.”

 Painful for an entirely different reason than the one he alluded to, but that was a discussion for a later date. When all was forgotten.

* * *

 

Any conventions dictating when day ended and night started were no longer being observed by Sherlock. Before John came along they were ignored, when John was here Sherlock respected that others liked to conform to these restrictions, and now that John was slipping away, sand through fingertips, Sherlock had deigned to ignore these routines once more. Every second was held onto with four hands: one pair belonging to John, the other to Sherlock.

 Not once had John said anything about the new habits, he seemed to embrace it fully. Coffee was being stocked in the flat at a new quantity, and John had learnt that sugar in his coffee let him stay awake later; the caffeine buzz reinforced with a sugar rush.

 It was 2:46 AM on Monday 14th November, Sherlock and John sat side-by-side, much closer than necessary, watching trash television, with only half a mind paying attention to the lights and colours that blurred into one mess on the screen in front of them.

 The physical gap between the two of them had become smaller and smaller in recent weeks, and John despaired because as this gap closed he could feel another one widening at a startling pace, and he knew that Sherlock could feel it too.

 The mugs were empty now; the dregs that lingered at the bottom were bitter and cold. John stood, taking Sherlock’s mug as he went, and ambled into the kitchen, the kettle turned on. John’s voice is muted and nervous. And Sherlock doesn’t quite hear the words that are called out to him, or he likes to pretend he doesn’t hear the words; delaying the inevitable.

 Sherlock eventually hoists himself out of the well-worn imprint of himself on the sofa, and walks in precise steps to the kitchen.

 What he finds there lowers his spirit: a little bit of his remaining hope flies out of the window, it’s being decimated slowly and Sherlock is worried about what will happen when those last pieces dissolve into nothingness.

 One mug sits solitary on the counter, the other mug he can’t see, and as he walks he hears the click that indicates the kettle has finished boiling. John’s left hand is pinching the bridge of his nose, the other rests on the jar that holds the tea bags, his head is dropped so that his chin must be touching his chest, and he is breathing great heaving sighs.

 Sherlock walks towards this tableau of anguish. He rests a hand gently on the back of John’s neck. And then quietly, almost inaudibly:

 “You drink coffee. No sugars.”

 It startles him for a minute, not the sound of his voice, but that Sherlock had not noticed that John now had sugar in his coffee.

 And then he shakes his head.

 “I know that.”

 The silence is long and tortuous.

 “What I don’t seem able to recall-” Sherlock has noticed now that when John has forgotten something, specifically something he deems is vital knowledge, he becomes formal about the whole affair, speaking with an eloquence that goes undetected on a normal day. “-is what beverage  _you_ favour on a day-to-day basis.”

 And Sherlock’s heart breaks just a little bit more.

 He removes his hand from John’s neck and stands up straight. He hates himself at this moment simply because he is being himself.

 “Look at me.” Another head shake. “For God’s sake John,  _look. At. Me._ ”

He raises his head slowly and cautiously. The moisture in his eyes is undeniable. Slowly he straightens out in front of Sherlock, placing the mug on the table with a distracting thud.  “First of all, that is unimportant: you need to look after yourself, and if, from time to time, you find small details about  _my_  life slipping down the cracks  _let them go_. You are the important one. Secondly…coffee, black. Two sugars.”

 And then he turns on his heel, before John catches him doing something as  _human_ as biting his lip or rubbing his temples.

 He reinstalls himself in his vacated seat, John returns seven minutes later with red eyes, trying to act casual but acutely aware that seven minutes is too long to make two cups of instant coffee from a kettle that was already boiled.

 He sits down and passes one of the two mugs to his companion.

 Sherlock takes the mug, and then wordlessly sips the dark bitterness.

 And then he starts smiling; he places the mug down on the floor before he spills any of it. John is looking at him like he has gone completely insane and it wouldn’t be the first time, but to Sherlock it really is the most memorable.

 Finally John gets angry and then:

  _“What?”_

 Sherlock turns to address him directly and he can’t help the small bursts of sunshine that try to escape with his words.

 “I  _hate_ coffee.”

 And then John starts laughing, because it’s nearly three o’clock in the morning and they are both going a bit funny with sleep deprivation and caffeine overload. And honestly? This seems like the funniest thing he has heard in years.

 They sit like that, just laughing for a good four minutes. Sherlock remembers a similar situation in Buckingham Palace when he was wrapped in a sheet and the sofa on which they both sat was a lot more ornate (and a lot less comfortable) than the one they occupied now. John doesn’t remember this but, right there and then, that doesn’t seem to matter.

 The laughing dies, silence falls.

 “Why do you drink it then?”

  “Once I was at Mycroft’s when he had a potential client for me. He had a tea tray brought out, and I just  _wanted_ to be difficult, so I asked for black coffee and I couldn’t very well not drink it so I suffered in silence, and for some reason it felt a bit more sophisticated, so I kept the habit up, but I’ve still not got used to the taste.”

 The laughter bubbles to the surface again, and it occupies them for another two minutes.

 “What do you  _like_ to drink then?”

 “Herbal teas, Mint mostly.”

 “Hmm”

 The silence continues for a bit longer, the television is still playing in the background, some dreadful American program that consisted mainly of families shouting at one another. And despite the mundane nature of the evening, and the obstacles that may or may not have been traversed these evenings, that lead to these small insights, were ones that were worth remembering.

* * *

Half past two on a Tuesday afternoon, and still Sherlock wasn’t home. It had been approximately 24 hours since he had last graced the flat with his presence, and precisely 36 hours since John Watson had slept last, though the two had no correlation. It was also roughly two hours before Mr. Holmes would stumble back through the front door of 221B and promptly collapse, looking, for all intents and purposes, like he had been dragged quite thoroughly through numerous hedges in a variety of different ways.

 So it was that on half past four on this afternoon, when John Watson was about to sit down with a cup of tea (it was still far to early to start on the coffee binge of the night), that he found himself nearly tripping over a half dead Sherlock Holmes, and not really batting an eyelid. Instead he made some inane comment about them needing more milk, simply stepped over the nearly-corpse, sat down on the sofa and started his search for the TV remote. After half a minute of fumbling around for the elusive item, he finally spied it on the floor resting beneath the splayed out right arm of one Mr. Holmes.

  _Really this won’t do,_  John thought to himself,  _he only left 10 minutes ago to get more biscuits._ Kneeling down to pick up the remote John found himself not simply reaching out and then removing the item from the unintentional possession of the almost cadaver on the carpet, but instead, ignoring the item completely, he lay down next to the man mirroring his position. His belly touching the floor, head turned to one side so that he was face to face with the man and closed his eyes.

 It was in this position that Sherlock awoke 2 hours later to find the other man, snoring softly. Waiting for a moment, and hoping to high heaven that all his limbs were still attached after his ordeal (because he honestly couldn’t remember what kind of injuries he had accumulated), he rolled himself into a sitting position, and when his head finally stopped spinning, he pulled himself up so that he was standing. That only lasted a few seconds as his legs gave way and he found himself back in his original position, but instead of being face first on the carpet he found that he now had a view of the ceiling.

 Nasty ceiling it was: dark and grey and covered with cobwebs, he put up with a minute or two of that view and then decided that he much preferred the carpet.

 And so once again Sherlock Holmes found himself lying face down on the floor of his flat for the second time in the last 24 hours. The carpet needed a good vacuuming, maybe he could invite Mrs. Hudson to tea at the weekend and subtly hint towards certain cleaning jobs that needed seeing to, and she would remind him for the 37th time that she _wasn’t their housekeeper,_ but eventually she would do it, and they could live safe in the knowledge that collapsing on the carpet would not aggravate their non-existent asthma. Which, of course, led him to wonder what kind of percentage of London’s population had asthma and how many of those were male, and how many of thosewere aged between 20 and 40, what the probability was that two non-asthmatic males aged between 20 and 40 would meet and then live in the same apartment. The number probably wasn’t that interesting but the amount of variables were baffling to Sherlock in his injured and … _fuzzy_  state.

 This train of thought had occupied him for a good while now, and it was with great surprise that Sherlock realised that John was awake and his eyes fixed on the man before him.

 “Did you get the biscuits?”

 “No”

 “Hmm, shame that.”

 It did not really register that John was not the slightest bit worried that Sherlock had been missing for more than a day.

 “Did you not wonder where I was?”

 John scoffed.

 “Blimey I know you're Mr. Self-important-pompous-arrogant-‘the-world-revolves-around-me’, but you were gone for 10 minutes,  _you went to the shop._ ”

 And it was then that Sherlock realised just how close the two of them were to the end, not the end of the world or anything as melodramatic as that, but just the end of Sherlock-and-John, that wonderful amalgamation of little-bit-crazy and completely-down-to-earth that had coloured both of their days since they met; because if John was forgetting recent things like that, losing whole days, they must be getting close. But at the same time Sherlock was somewhat relieved because he wasn’t around yesterday and John had still forgotten, and although most of the things John’s mind no longer tolerated pertained to him, it was nice to know that other things were going as well.

 “Yes, I suppose it was only a quick trip”

 It would be better this way, let John hold onto as much as he can, or at least think he is. Sherlock didn’t want to  _let it be_ , or even  _let go_ as he had been instructed, moments like this made him want to hold even tighter to John’s brilliant mind, because letting it slip away at that moment did not seem like an option.

 They were still lying face to face on the floor, and John’s right hand splayed out above his head, started to move, it inched across until it touched Sherlock’s wrist and then too quickly it was gone and it stung. Now it was in front of John’s face and he was inspecting the liquid rust, sticky and violent.

 “Oh Sherlock, what have you done?”

 The pitying look on his face was too much, and it took a moment for Sherlock to understand John’s obvious thought process, and realize the criss-cross pattern of cuts that must adorn his wrists.

 “Now who’s ‘Mr. Self-important-pompous-arrogant-‘the-world-revolves-around-me’?” It was said quietly, with no barbs or bitterness, not obviously directed at John but that was its intended target. “I’m not trying to  _off_ myself, I’m upset this is happening but I’m not _that_ pathetic or selfish, and anyway: What would you do without me?”

 The last part was said in a joking tone, but John knew the sentiment behind it was serious and he agreed, there was very little he could do, or bring himself to do without Sherlock. And he knew how hard this must be for him. It took a moment to process the rest of his words.

 “Trying to kill yourself isn’t pathetic or selfish.”

 It was said as an idle comment. But Sherlock’s eyes flickered for a moment. Darkness.

 There was a moment’s pause.

 “Maybe not pathetic, I do think its selfish though, nobody ever thinks of the ones you leave behind…I felt selfish once, and a bit pathetic: mind as busy as mine, drugs making it worse, and I figured that there wasn’t much point to anything, had myself pinned as a regular Plato, discovered the meaning of life: there isn’t one-” Cough: that change in tone that makes it sound as if one is trying to subtly trying to change the subject, but really not managing ‘subtle’ “-and then Mycroft pulled me out of it, and that was the end of that phase, and those thoughts…really I owe him. Because there is so much to life, so many little things to see, and John I’m so happy that I was here to watch as you become  _you-_ ”

 “Don’t” John had closed his eyes again, trying to block out the cold, harsh light of reality.

 “Don’t what?”

 “Think those thoughts, it wasn’t your fault, it isn’t your fault.” Today seemed like one of those pause filled days “And  _don’t ever say goodbye_. Please”

 “Hmmm”

 And this moment won’t be remembered by John tomorrow, or in a week’s time when he has to move out. But unbeknownst to John, Sherlock will lie down in the exact same spot, in the exact same position at 6:40pm every night for weeks, and then every Tuesday in the years after that. There will even be times when Sherlock has to excuse himself from an important investigation or urgent client just so that he can go and lie on the floor, Mrs. Hudson won’t even notice that something is odd when she walks into the apartment and finds him there: sometimes with his nose pressed against the carpet inhaling deeply, sometimes still and silent as a corpse, but always with tears, just a few, that drip onto the carpet in the same spot. A salt-water tribute for John Watson.

 Because, whilst he is not gone from the world, he is gone from Sherlock’s life.

* * *

 

 “Have you ever liked someone?”

“I like Mrs. Hudson.”

“No I mean  _like_ likesomeone.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand how repeating the word changes the meaning of it, enlighten me please?”

“I mean have you ever...well loved someone, I suppose?”

Of course Sherlock had known what he meant, he had known what today’s topic on conversation was going to be the second John walked into the room, he could tell by the look in his eyes. He had walked in and sat down in quite a distracted manner, taking in but not really noticing the peculiarity of Sherlock’s position lying face down on the floor, eyes shut. He had not even worried that he may be waking him with this conversation. He was far too in tune with the man and his breathing patterns to mistake a conscious Sherlock for an unconscious one, and recently Sherlock had become somewhat attached to that patch of floor for no apparent reason that John could see.

“Yes” The man had not opened his eyes, nor sat up to answer the question. John was waiting for him to elaborate on the answer. But no elaboration came, the silence stretched on for miles.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“ _Well,_ who did you love?”

“You assume that it’s past tense.”

“I am not so dense to think that if you have  _ever_  had feelings like that for someone you wouldn’t have done something about it, but as there is only the two of us here, _I am to deduce_  that either the feelings were not reciprocated and you moved on or you buggered it up and moved on.”

And this was Sherlock’s chance to rewrite their past, rewrite history. He could easily take advantage of the gaps that were appearing at that very moment in John’s mind. But he couldn’t do that, what he could do though was help shape their future, make the limited days brighter. Answer truthfully, and hope that some things came back to John.

“I thought…maybe once, I’m not sure what it was, it was toxic, painful. And I didn’t like it one bit. Fortunately she seemed to get the raw end of the deal and I managed to escape  _relatively_  unscathed. Though it nearly punched a hole in the economy. A  _big_ hole.”

“Oh God, do I even want to know?”

“I don’t know,  _do_ you want to know?” a smile punctuated his question.

Sherlock could see John cock his head out the corner of his eye, and took it as curiosity he continued. “ _The_ Woman _._  You knew her; you were there for most of it, blogged about it, I think. I never really saw you write that one up, I thought you must have done it whilst I was moping. Oh yes  _moping._  I know-” Sigh, “-or you didn’t write it up for national security, Mycroft’s orders no doubt.”

The blog had been forgotten long ago, it seemed insignificant now. The password had slipped down the gaps for John and, although he could have probably figured it out, Sherlock thought it best to let it lie. These moments belonged to them and they should remain that way. The public shouldn’t be privy to the slow, painful degeneration of Holmes-and-Watson, because as much as this was about John’s mind, he thought, as he had foretold, he was taking Sherlock with him, but something Sherlock would never admit to was that he was going voluntarily. 

Because he wanted to be there when everything fell to pieces, even though he knew that he wouldn't be able to pick up those pieces and glue them back together. He was resolute that he would try to sweep them into a neat pile, that may or may not resemble the man he used to know, but no longer knew him, and relinquish the adhesive to someone who could use it.

 But, every now and then in these dark times a burst of sunshine would illuminate things; John would remember and reveal something previously thought lost. And now was one of those times.

 “Some things I didn’t write because they was private, and painful. For you _and_ me… It hurt to see  _you_ get hurt like that. I didn’t publish everything for anyone to read. I have filters, honest, and every now and then there were some things that just seemed wrong to post. Most of those things are written on a word document somewhere. But not on the blog.”

 Sherlock lifted his head, opened his eyes, looked at John and nodded his thanks, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

 “Have you ever  _liked_ someone?”  He could practically _hear_ Sherlock’s eyes roll as he was reduced to using John’s juvenile phrase.

 “Yeah, a few people. There was this one girl, thought it was the real deal. Thought we would get married and have 2.5 children and a dog, etcetera.”

 “ _2.5 children?”_ Sherlock sounded exasperated shocked and disgusted all in one, in that way that only Sherlock can do.

 “It’s a statistic, meant to be the typical number of children per family.”

 “ _Two and a half offspring?”_

 “Oh just drop it… I can’t remember most of it, just fragments, not even her name! She was ‘ _perfect’ ”_ this was said with a bitter twist of lips “blonde hair. I…I remember talking to her before going to Afghanistan.” He closed his eyes as if getting rid of his vision would make the mental picture clearer “she was crying…and I thought she was just sad I was going” and then it all gushed out of his mouth at once, the grimace on his face even more prominent as his eyes snapped open “she thought the best time to tell me that she was sleeping with my sister was just before I went into a war zone. Well planned that was. It’s a good job I’m a doctor, they don’t tend to heavily arm doctors, otherwise I might’ve hurt someone. Never really got over it, until I got shot. And it just took all the anger out of me; it was like it all…leaked out through the wound. When I got to London I was ready to start up again, get my energy back, put it into the anger. Then I met you and all that energy seemed a bit misdirected, I started living...”

 “ _A girl, a boy and a pair of legs.”_

 “Oh, for god’s sake!”

 Sherlock smiled, happy that he still had the talent to annoy John the way he did when they first met. He looked at John on the sofa and then patted a patch of carpet, an invitation to join him on the floor. Which, bizarrely, did not seem weird at all to John.

 “You are right.” Sherlock began quietly.

 “Oh?”

 They were now both lying on the floor, Sherlock had closed his eyes again, but John’s remained firmly fixated on the peaceful features of his companions.

 “If I ever have feelings of  _that magnitude_ for someone I would do something about it.”

 Silence.

 “And  _you are here_ ”

 He let that sink in, and though he knew it was unlikely he really hoped that, if John were ever going to remember any of their exchanges, he would remember  _this_  one. 

Although his morals (that had suddenly made an appearance in light of John’s situation) wouldn’t allow him to rewrite their past, he was going to take every advantage to shape their very limited future.

* * *

The boxes were in the way, physically and emotionally. And for that Sherlock Holmes was grateful, he was glad that the boxes sometimes blocked his view of John walking around the flat cluelessly, getting lost in his own home. Looking at things with a curiosity that just  _shouldn’t be there_ after seeing the items nearly everyday for god knows how long: a skull, a Cluedo board stuck to the wall with a knife, bullet holes in a wall.

Sherlock had been in contact with Harry, and, as much as he was loathe to admit it, he must concede that it had seemed like a good idea to have John move in with her, someone he was not forgetting, into a place where he could be looked after 24/7

So the boxes had been packed. But it’s still a few days before the vans are due to arrive. Because yes, they need vans despite only moving across the city, John has firmly installed himself in the flat; enough to warrant such elaborate moving plans, because even when they had just met, and John was only just moving in, he had subconsciously intended to be there forever. 

 John went out to the shops at 11 and it’s now 2 o’ clock. Sherlock is getting twitchy, though he knew he should just remain calm.

 The ringing phone rouses him from his place on the arm chair (there are boxes in his spot on the floor, and he has been glaring at them resentfully ever since they took up residence there) it barely has chance to ring a second time before he picks it up and answers it.

 Her voice is tinny.

 “I’ve got him”

 Those three words are it, the true beginning of the end.  Sherlock says nothing, does nothing, just ends the call and takes deep shuddering breaths.

 It’s half an hour later that she arrives on his doorstep with John in tow.

 John is ushered in, Harry remains on the doorstep: he doesn’t invite her in and she doesn’t presume that she is welcome. She is aware of what all this is doing to Sherlock, and what  _she_ will do to him when she takes John away from him.

 Sherlock gives a curt nod, which is returned before the door closes as she walks away. How Sherlock wishes that he could just close the door on all of their other problems as easily.

 It hadn’t escaped his notice that John no longer addresses him by name, nor had the funny looks that John gave him every now and then when they were milling about the flat, self involved, and ran into each other. It was a look of surprise; John hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. The looks didn’t last long; only a few seconds before the correct wires in John’s mind connected and there was some vague recognition, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock didn’t see those looks.

 Once, when they ran into Lestrade and he greeted them (Lestrade loudly exclaiming “Sherlock!” as he caught the consulting detective trying to subtly rifle through a young woman’s handbag, who was stood in front of them), he could see John out of the corner of his eye, mouthing the word  _Sherlock,_ trying to get used to it. Brow furrowed and eyes closed as he tried desperately to reconcile the name with the man in front of him, and the angry tears that slipped down his face when he found that it wouldn’t stick. And a minute later when the blank look crossed his face, Sherlock’s heart broke a little bit more because  _John was giving up._

 The next days pass. That’s it. They just pass, not particularly slowly, and not particularly quickly, just at a regular day pace. Sherlock doesn’t despair because it’s “not enough time” or anything as ridiculously pathetic as that. He just accepts it, and understands that _their_ time is over.

And so it comes to be that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are standing before the front door of 221B Baker Street on a bitter day at the death of November. Upstairs there is a flat that is half empty, and Sherlock doesn’t know what is worst: a long and gruesome farewell, or having to go back up to those rooms by himself.

Fortunately he doesn’t have to decide, and maybe in some ways you could say that it is also fortunate that their goodbye was not prolonged, or particularly emotional. They stand an uncomfortable distance away from each other, and Sherlock doesn’t like that because it seems that all of a sudden the gap between them has become physical. And for a strange moment he realises that it feels that way because it  _is_ that way.

John puts his hand out to shake, and for a moment Sherlock is tempted to just ignore it completely. So formal. Is this what years of frustration, sharp comments and near-death experiences boil down to? A  _handshake?_  But then Sherlock stops those thoughts, and simply takes the hand, heaving a sigh.

“Come and visit. Please” Sherlock doesn’t even realise that this is the first time the p-word has passed his lips voluntarily, and without coercion.

“Yes, I will.” His answer is stilted and unsure.

And that is that, John Watson walked out of his life, pretty much for good. Though he would see him sometimes, and fate is cruel, and forces them together sometimes. But really that’s it: it’s the end.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to watch John make his way to the taxi, nor did he have the strength to go back to the half dead flat. Instead he went into the building, walked through Mrs. Hudson’s door, walked around her living space twice before finding the patch of floor that he wanted to lay on, the one that was parallel with his upstairs patch. And he lay down. Mrs Hudson didn’t say a word three hours later when she came home to find him there; she simply went to the kitchen, made him a cup of coffee and left it on the floor next to him. Which is where it remained long after Sherlock had vacated the spot at 2 o’clock in the morning. 

* * *

Two days after John had moved out Sherlock found he was in a similar position to the one he was in less than a week previously, only the situation was reversed.

Sherlock picked up the phone to contact Harry, dialling the number before deciding that perhaps a text would be less painful for both of them.

**I’ve got him.**

**Will bring him back later.**

**No need to worry.**

**-SH**

Sherlock had found that the black abyss that was swallowing his heart in these weeks pulsated a little more than usual when he walked into the flat to find John Watson sitting down on the armchair like he had never been gone. Sherlock had hesitated for a second before sending a text to Harry and then proceeding to sit in the chair opposite John

There were two mugs on the table in front of him and he took note of the contents before relaxing into the chair

 "Tea?" a sceptical question

 "Didn’t really feel like coffee, sometimes I  _hate_  coffee"

 Sherlock inclined his head slightly, acknowledging John’s comment. Not missing the significance of the words, his ownwords that had just been thrown back at him.

 He didn’t know what to say, more importantly he didn’t know where they were, what do you say to someone when you don’t even know if they remember you? He felt like he was on the edge of a precipice leading a blind man who didn't know where he stood, but he wasn't allowed to tell the man for fear that he may lose his balance.

 He picked up the mug in front of his chair and took a sip. Tea. Herbal.  _Mint_

 John and Harry had argued, Harry had told him to run along to his boyfriend and he hadn’t thought, had just got up and walked away. And before he knew it he had come here and it was only once he was standing on his doorstep that everything had caught up but by then the landlady had spotted him and ushered him in. He was so confused.

 “I think she had been drinking”

 Sherlock didn’t let it show, didn’t let the anger out. They had a deal, Harry could have John, but she couldn’t have anymore alcohol. That was a fair trade right? Trade wasn’t even the right word for it, as  _trade_ implied that Sherlock got something out of it. Which he didn’t.

 “I think I’ll have to talk to your sister.” Sherlock was relieved to find that he didn’t sound angry, he just sounded like a disappointed parent.

 “Oh dear” John’s joking tone was some light relief to the too-heavy atmosphere.

 “What were you fighting about?”

 “Well…that’s the thing, she didn’t even make sense, she kept talking about dad: both mum and dad have been dead for years.”

 “You never talked about your family when you were here.”

 “Neither did you” the retort is barbed, sharper than Sherlock expected.

 The quiet that follows is bitter, worse than the coffee that neither of them likes.

 Sherlock opens his mouth, he was going to be tactful, or at least try: subtle subject changing was never his forte.

 “Don’t even bother.”

 John’s comment is sharp again, not as sharp as earlier, but still hiding a sting.

 It’s then that Sherlock realizes that this is a two-way street, and though he might not gain anything from this, he will at least know that he tried to tell John _everything_  he could before he let go.

 “Never really knew my father, died when I was young, I was told. Mummy never talked about him, and there were no photos in the house. Ever. Shame really. Mother, well Mother is a feisty one. Mycroft keeps her updated on me I’m sure, but I haven’t seen her since…since I left for University. God was it really that long ago?”

 “University?”

 “Hmmm, Natural sciences, Sidney Sussex”

 One of John’s eyebrows went up, questioning. A moment passed.

 “Sidney Sussex?” John prompted.

 “College, Sidney Sussex College.  _Cambridge_ , John”

 The other eyebrow shot up, to greet the one that already resided in his hairline.

 “Yes, Cambridge John, bit of a family tradition, or rivalry I suppose you could say, Mycroft went to Oxford. It’s a shame that we aren’t the same age. Would have been one hell of a boat race those years if we were…”

 Sherlock trails off, a new habit developed through this hard time.

 And then he waits; these days his patience seems eternal. Yet another habit he has picked up from John no doubt.

 “Both of my parents died when we were young, not too young, not like you and your dad, just in my first year of Uni. M-Mum went first, then dad. I wanted to be a doctor because of them, they were anti-violence, they may have been Quakers, I can’t remember.”

 His voice cracked. Maybe because his parents were now slipping away for a second time, or maybe because he found it hard that it was so easy to talk to a stranger about these things.

 “When they died, and Harry was still in school and I was at the start of five years minimum of education that I had worked so hard to get to, I was selfish and abandoned my morals. A friend of mine told me the army would pay for your tuition and you could ‘earn whilst you learn’ in the last 3 years, so I took that opportunity. And god I’ve never felt so bad in my life, I felt like I was betraying my parents. I didn’t tell Harry until I had to, she had already fallen in with the wrong crowd, and this just pushed her over the edge. I betrayed my family and ruined my sisters life in one go.”

 “You did what you had to”

 “No I did what I wanted to do, for my own benefit.”

 “You had little choice, in the circumstance it was for the best, you couldn’t support you and Harry on our own.”

 John had his head in his hands, and was shaking a little bit.

 “We were friends for a long time you say? This is why I stuck around with you I bet, you make it all better, make me feels less guilty.”

  “I’m sure there were other reasons.” Sherlock’s lips twist into a wry smile.

 “I’m sure” John echoes, “Are you a therapist? Is that what you do for a living?”

 Sherlock shakes his head, because he can’t bring himself to open his mouth to answer this simple question that has the simplest answer. An answer that should easily come to John, but is now gone from the mans mind.

 “Well I bet it was something interesting.”

 “I suppose you could say that.”

 And when John leaves that night, it’s with a little bit more pain than yesterday. On both of their sides, but the new wounds help disguise the old ones and there’s some comfort in that.

 Sherlock helps John with his coat and when he is not looking he slips and card into the pocket. He hopes that John finds it, not now or tomorrow, but in a few months time when everything that is now is less than a faded photograph hidden in the attic of his mind.

 

 

**Sherlock Holmes.**

**Consulting Detective.**

There is a number below it, and an address on the other side, but that is not the most peculiar thing.

 No, the unique thing about this card is that, above ‘consulting detective’ and below ‘Sherlock Holmes’, in a blue biro that had been running out of ink, written in hurried scrawl is just one word.

* * *

 The topics ranged from dark and heavy to light and light. It was like sucking poison from a wound: slowly everything dripped out. It stung, sometimes it hurt like hell, but in the end it was all worth it.

 Sherlock found that the worst conversations were the ones they had already had. Despite this Sherlock found himself bringing up familiar topics, simply because, selfishly, he knew how those conversations went, he could navigate them well and after a while he could coax more information out of John than he had before, simply by asking the right questions at the right times. What that blonde girl’s name was, when his sister had started drinking, whether he preferred tea or coffee or neither, what John saw in Sherlock.

It felt like cheating sometimes, but John didn’t know that this was the same avenue of his past that they had visited the night before.

It was early December when Sherlock walked into his flat to find it empty. Not an odd occurrence, but this was a new kind of empty; this was a permanent kind of empty. The one that he knew wouldn’t be filled any time soon.

He received a text from Harry.

**John’s still at mine.**

**I’m so sorry, thought he was getting better.**

**Harry X**

They were both expecting it; the day John just forgot that extra bit and stopped going to Baker Street and talking to Sherlock. Sherlock was surprised he’d managed to hold on this long.

And now he had let it go, and Sherlock was a little bit glad because it must have been quite a strain on John. To hold on, to come every evening, to pretend he knew the stranger he sat opposite in a strange flat, to tell this stranger about his life.

 _‘thought he was getting better’_   Harry was obviously much more optimistic than Sherlock, Sherlock had  _known_ that he wasn’t getting better. Why Sherlock had tried to hold on was a mystery, because really? It just made it more painful now.

He spent the next day at the window, watching the streets waiting for a John shaped blur to appear through the rain. Such a blur did eventually appear, he walked down the street and then he walked right past their door (because it would always be  _their_ door no matter what happened.) John walked a few yards past the door, before he stopped looked around confused and then walked back towards the door. He stopped just outside the door looked at it, then turned again and resumed walking in his original direction.

This happened again for the next few days, then it stopped, but Sherlock could still make out a John shaped blur loitering around the edge of the street. And he wondered not for the first time if this is what Sherlock had become in John’s mind: a blur that dances around the frayed edges, desperate to be let back in.

A week later Sherlock found himself in the uncomfortable and unfamiliar position of doing the shopping. Contrary to popular belief the man  _was_ human, and therefore _did_ have to eat to remain alive.

In accordance with popular belief, Sherlock believed he was thoroughly  _out_  of his depth in the supermarket, however he was lucky enough to stumble upon an old shopping list that John had written up last month for their weekly shop (unfortunately John had completely forgotten the next day that he had ever intended to go shopping.

Before John had gone completely they had gotten by with going out for the bare essentials (milk, bread, coffee), and pestering Mrs. Hudson into getting things for them and, when she was out, ‘borrowing’ things from her apartment (though John never knew about the last part.)

So Sherlock went to the shop, there he made his way quite swiftly down the aisles one by one, not picking anything up, just acquainting himself with the layout of the shop. On his second turn around the store he picked up a basket and proceeded around the place in a regal manner. Picking up and placing items into his basket without even looking at them most of the time.

It was whilst he was doing this that he noticed something, or rather someone.

Harry Watson was scrutinizing two types of cereal in the aisle in front of him. Sherlock thought for a moment about turning away and making his way home, avoiding any awkward conversations and the woman herself. He then told himself that it was a silly thing to stop his shopping for and continued down the aisle, praying to God that she wouldn’t see him, or if she did she wouldn’t make idle chit-chat with him: he hated small talk.

His prayer went unanswered, for the most part.

She did notice him, and she looked all geared up to talk about the weather, and the time of year, and Christmas shopping. But something stopped her, and she nodded politely at the man.

“He… um, well we don’t normally go shopping here, but he insisted. he’s here somewhere,  the bread aisle I think.”

Sherlock nodded politely in reply. Knowing that, for the sake of his sanity, he needed to avoid the bread aisle for all his worth. But his legs had different ideas, and before he knew it he found himself strolling parallel to thick sliced wholemeal and farmhouse white.

And John was standing there with a trolley, perusing the baguette section. He didn’t see Sherlock, didn’t even notice there was anyone else down that aisle. Sherlock slowed down, he almost stopped walking completely but he knew that would look odd, so he kept going. And when he got close enough he took a really good look at the man, then his eyes fell to the trolley, and by extension the contents of the trolley. Sherlock didn’t even have to look at his own basket, or the shopping list he had securely in his wallet (he didn’t need it, memorized of course, but he liked that he had part of John with him wherever he went), he knew that John’s trolley was identical to his own shopping. Maybe it was a coincidence, but that was doubtful. More likely was that parts of John’s subconscious were leaking into his life.

Sherlock smiled all the way home, because maybe John didn’t remember him, but he certainly remembered bits of  _them._

And there was no point of him if he wasn’t part of ‘them’.

 

 

 

* * *

  

Sherlock found himself (sadly) frequenting the greasy spoon café that neighboured their apartment. He wasn’t drawn there because of their sterling customer service (this may have been a personal opinion, but Sherlock would label it sterling, as long as the waitress didn’t make idle chit-chat or mess his order up) or  “award-winning sandwiches” (Sherlock wondered just  _what_  kind of awards their were for sandwiches) but because of the sandy haired ex-army doctor that had started also started visiting the grimy place.

Sherlock had realised after a few visits that he looked quite creepy going to a café without anything to do and then loitering there for hours, so he started writing up some of the cases. He makes notes when he meets clients, and surprisingly he finds that it makes everything neater and a little bit easier. So now when he goes to the café he does so with a large stack of paper.

He sits and writes and watches. John no longer drinks coffee; instead he drinks a mixture of things ranging from Earl Grey to mint tea. Sherlock has managed to associate John’s mood with his beverage. Mint tea equates to a good mood, happy, cheery, proud etc. Earl Grey makes an appearance on particularly melancholic days. It’s these days that Sherlock finds the hardest. He so wants to comfort John. Talk to him: find out what is bothering him.

It’s on an Earl Grey day that John sits quite close to Sherlock’s table.

“Weather’s crap today.”

Normally Sherlock would not grace such an inane comment with acknowledgement, let alone an answer. But this is John, and he is Sherlock. And John is the exception to most of his rules, including his ‘small-talk’ rule.

“Hmmm, it’s meant to get a bit better by the end of the week, I think. Or maybe it was snow at the end of the week. I honestly can’t remember.”

John looks at him with a look of surprise on his face

“You can’t remember whether it’s getting better or going to snow? What kind of forecast were you watching?” he asks jokingly

“Obviously the wrong one.” Sherlock likes the easy banter between them. It makes things a bit simpler. Maybe he can act as if this is the first time he has met John.

“Do you mind?” John asks gesturing to the seat opposite Sherlock.

“By all means, go ahead.”

John sits down and shuffles a bit. He takes a sip out of the chipped mug.

“That looks like some heavy stuff you’re doing there.” he nods his head towards the pile of papers in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at his own work, he is half way through writing down some chemical equations: they’re different types of toxins that may have been used on a woman in his last case. 

He is quick on his feet.

“I’m studying”

“Really? What for?”

“Doctorate in Chemistry” the lies come easily enough, despite the way his tongue twists as the words come out, his reluctance to lie to John of all people, is evident to himself, but only to himself.

“Wow, dedication. What do you do? For a job I mean." 

“Oh I dabble, focusing on this at the moment though.”

“Yeah, I bet it takes a lot of work.” The conversation trails off, and sherlock is desperate to get it back on track, on any sort of track.

“I did Natural sciences at Uni, it was quite broad, but I always really had a love for chemistry.”

John smiled at him, “yeah, I empathise, I’m a bit of science person too. But the allure of medicine got to me, all those sciences mixed into one application, and the opportunity to do something really useful, you know?” he smiles.

Sherlock smiles back, this is the John he knew. “I commend you, I have to say I was tempted too, but I’m not very good with, well, people.”

“Really? You seem nice to me… so, is Cambridge nice? I’ve heard stories of course, but is it all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Oh it's nice, lots of snobs though. You have to be careful; they all watch each other’s backs. You can’t get away with anything.”

It’s later, much later that Sherlock replays the conversation in his head. They had made a little more small talk about science before going their separate ways. Sherlock can’t believe he missed it before, but at the same time he is happy he did miss it, because if he had noticed he would have made a fuss and ruined the moment.

_Is Cambridge nice?_

The words reverberate through his skull. He hadn’t said anything about Cambridge. Hadn’t even hinted towards where he went to university. But John had remembered something. Maybe not who he was, or how they knew each other but that didn’t matter. John had  _remembered_. Sherlock may or may not have spent the rest of the evening grinning ear to ear.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The smell of coffee is powerful and obtrusive as Sherlock makes his way to the back of the café, sitting down in his regular spot. He has become a  _regular_  at this place, much to his distaste.

He sets down the mug in his left hand, and pulls a face at the dark liquid inside. He doesn’t know why he does it, it stopped being sophisticated a long time ago now, but there is something about it that reminds him of his time with John, the façade they both lived. It’s painful, but in a satisfying way, like removing a splinter.

He drinks fairly quickly, like someone in a rush. But that is confusing, why would anyone sit-in when they could just get a take-out if they were in a rush? He is not reading a book, or playing on a phone or laptop. He doesn’t even have a companion. 

Its nearly eleven o’ clock when he checks his watch he stands up abruptly and makes his way towards the door. As he is doing this door is opening and another customer is just making his way into the café. It might seem that the two know each other, may greet each other but that is not the case.

 

 

 

 

 ~*~

John Watson doesn’t like coffee, not anymore, he knows that much. Maybe in another life he may have lived off the stuff out of necessity, but that has faded far from his mind now. He doesn’t know why he gravitates towards this place, but the small, independent ‘Speedy’s Sandwich Bar’ pulls him in and sometimes he just can’t stop himself from entering the greasy spoon café. It’s become something of a routine now, and he likes the regularity of it. Sunday mornings. At 11.

It comes as a shock, quite suddenly: all ebony and ice, the two men collide. Papers go everywhere, for one of them, it would seem, is carrying an inordinate amount of paperwork for a Sunday morning. Both of them bend down to retrieve the papers, and silence is broken only by shuffling, mumbles and crumpling paper.

They stand up; straighten out simultaneously. One brushes imaginary lint off his trousers and inspect his shoes for a beat, the pattern of scuffs entertains him far more than it should. A throat clears, and they both look up, as if startled out of their reprieve, though this cough was not designed to catch attention. This is a genuine cough.

They just stand there, waiting for the other to move. It’s getting uncomfortable; the staring has gone on for too long.

Then the spell is broken, and it isn’t the lanky one with the scarf and the dramatic coat that breaches the silence, but rather the sandy haired one.

“Can I help you?” the tone is rude, or it’s  _trying_ to be rude. But the man just seems too nice, too polite, to ever be rude.   

The other man takes a moment to process the words, and when they finally sink in the reaction is bizarre. His eyebrows leap into his hairline, as if he is genuinely surprised and somewhat offended by the tone of the blonde man. Then his lips twitch, not much, but enough. And finally this develops into a small smile. But it doesn’t feel malicious, he’s not laughing  _at_ the man, it’s more like he has just figured out something amazing and feels he should share this moment with someone, but at the same time is quite unsure whom he could share it with. He’s giddy with his success.

“See that girl there, with the red hair? Go and buy her a drink for me. Talk to her, the family dog has just died, and her boyfriend is cheating on her. She likes decaf mochas, full fat.” He rattles this off at an amazing pace. Then he lowers his voice, steps closer to him, speaking into his ear.  “And thank you, but  _no_ you can’t help me. Thanks for everything”

 

 

 

 

  ~*~

And that is how Sherlock Holmes learned how to let go. It hurt a lot at times, and it was definitely  _not_ easy. But let go he did.

 

 

 ~*~

 For a reason that John Watson can’t quite figure out, he heeds the strange man’s advice and finds himself sitting across from a young red headed woman. Her book is long forgotten and they are talking and laughing about something quite mundane.

 When she looks at her watch and makes to rush off, she offers to leave her number. John accepts and then she is searching for a pen and something to write on. The pen is found easily, but there seems to be a distinct lack of anything that could be written on. In the end John searches his coat pockets for some scrap of paper.

 He pulls out a business card that he doesn’t remember ever taking, and flips it over a few times in his hand.

 “Can I write it on that?”

 He hesitates and looks at the card. Flips it over and reads the card again.

 “Um. Sorry…sorry, no it’s quite important” he doesn’t even understand his own answer, just like he doesn’t know where the card has come from. He gets out his wallet and slides it carefully into the slot reserved for a photo, facing out so he can see what is written on it. In his wallet he finds another piece of paper for her to write on.

 

 

 

* * *

 

He considers his response to the strange business card for the next few days. He comes to the conclusion that the card probably wouldn’t have caught his attention if not for the scrawl that’s written jauntily across the middle in blue ink that throws the black font into sharp contrast. It’s looks like just a squiggle, not even a word, but John can make out the letters when he concentrates. Just one small word that makes the whole thing unique, he wonders who wrote it. But that’s a silly line of thought, because logically the person who wrote it would be the person whose name is on the card.

 

Maybe he would look them up one day; it would be interesting to find out what a consulting detective did. Maybe he wouldn’t have time. All he knew was that for some reason the card seemed precious.

 Although John never did look up the mysterious consulting detective, he never really felt that he had missed out. In fact it seemed wrong to track down the man and solve the conundrum. The enigma was what made it special. 

 It some was years later that John Watson opened his wallet to find that the business card was no longer there.  John felt hurt, and a little bit betrayed by the inanimate piece of card, which made him question his sanity for a moment. His companion of so many years had just gone: disappeared.

 John never did find the card; he looked and looked but it was to no avail. 

Despite this, what was on the card, the typeface, the style, the punctuation, the _words_ were the last things that fled John's mind when poison and age had robbed it of everything else. It was the last thing he held onto. 

 

 

 

  **Sherlock Holmes.**

_Your_

**consulting detective.**

 


End file.
